The Wolf Ballet || WW2

26. The Wolf Ballet

Chapter Twenty-Six

March 10th, 1940
Berlin, Germany
191 days into the war

It was the substantial smell of lilacs that signified the coming age of Spring. The cool—not freezing, air that combined with the embrace of the sun that would open a new day for the blossoming meadows.

Stationed near the open bay doors that lead to the terrace of Ivan's Apartment in Berlin, Ophelia sat with her legs tucked under. Sprawled around her, piles of German literature, some laying over the ends of her pink summer dress.

It had been nearly four months since she left Poland. Under a new alias, she did well in keeping low. It took efforts but with constant care and with the help of Ivan, Ophelia was able to regain some health. She was eating better, and her blonde hair had grown to reach the back of her neck. Ophelia would often caress the ends of it, wishing it'd be longer but she would have to wait.

For now, she resorted to small flower clips and berets to style her short wavy mane.

Ophelia looked up from her book upon hearing the front door click. The gentle stepping of feet and light tapping of a cane indicated that Ivan was back home.

"What book did you find now child?" Ivan asked walking into the room as he set down the brown paper bag filled with groceries. Ophelia sighed, looking back down to her lap,

"The Sorrows of Young Werther," she responded in German. "Johann Wolfgang von Goethe was a rather depressing man, was he not?"

Ophelia quipped, referring to the German author whose novel depicted a man rejected by society and by love, only to shoot himself in the head by the end.

"It is rather sad isn't it?" Ivan chuckled, "Loving someone so dearly that you come to believe that the key to their happiness, is your death,"

Ophelia frown, resting the open book into her lap, her two hands holding it open on the page. "If someone truly loved me, I'd want him to fight to stay by my side—to breath my air, no matter if my mind does not realize it at the moment, at least my spirit would be known to have been loved."

"Spoken like a true romantic," Ivan huffed, "you French sure have a way of seeing the world in rose,"

"Du gehst mir auf den Keks," Ophelia laughed, using one of the German slangs she has learned.

Ivan had made it his responsibility to introduce Ophelia to the German tongue. There was a promising improvement, of course, though she was still not eloquent in her tone. The French girl could understand it much more now, but she still often mixed up the pronunciation.

"You are getting better," Ivan praised, walking around the girl to enter the kitchen.

"No, I am not," Ophelia admitted exhaustedly in English. Her French accent coming through as she speaks.

Setting her book aside, Ophelia stood up from the mass of heavy books and stretched out her arms. Staying on her toes, her bandaged feet pressing against the polished wood, she maneuvered around the mess and made her way out onto the terrace. Looking at the cloudy blue sky, she can still make out the contrails made by the warplanes.

The war was still heavily impacting the world. Many nations have turned their forces against Germany. Ophelia figured it would only be a matter of time before the winner was revealed. Ivan had tried to make contact with Ophelia's family but so far there has been no response. France was at war with Germany, so the chances of sneaking a letter without it being intercepted were low. Ophelia would have to wait until either France or Germany opened up wide enough for her to sneak by.